Zane Grey (21 page)

"I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue," groaned Joe. "I
wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel."

"Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them scream that
French name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were
killed instantly. The others died during the night. I had to sit
here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the
name of their slayer, even in their death-throes. Deathwind! They
have named him well."

"I guess he nearly killed Girty."

"Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade."

"Jim Girty's doomed," whispered Joe, earnestly. "He's as good as
dead already. I've lived with Wetzel, and know him. He told me Girty
had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry
with his son. The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, mind
you, he did not tell me that. I saw it in his eyes. It wouldn't
surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment. I'm
looking for it. If he knows there are only three left, he'll be
after them like a hound on a trail. Girty must hurry. Where's he
taking you?"

"To the Delaware town."

"I don't suppose the chiefs will let any harm befall you; but Kate
and I would be better off dead. If we can only delay the march,
Wetzel will surely return."

"Hush! Girty's up."

The renegade staggered to an upright position, and leaned on the
Shawnee's arm. Evidently he had not been seriously injured, only
stunned. Covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his
temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance.

"Where's the yellow-haired lass?" he demanded, pushing away
Silvertip's friendly arm. He glared around the glade. The Shawnee
addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree,
cursing with foam-flecked lips, and actually howling with baffled
rage. His fury was so great that he became suddenly weak, and was
compelled to sit down.

"She's safe, you villainous renegade!" cried Joe.

"Hush, Joe! Do not anger him. It can do no good," interposed Jim.

"Why not? We couldn't be worse off," answered Joe.

"I'll git her, I'll git her agin," panted Girty. "I'll keep her, an'
she'll love me."

The spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been
cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous,
that for a moment Joe was dumbfounded.

"Bah! You white-livered murderer!" Joe hissed. He well knew it was
not wise to give way to his passion; but he could not help it. This
beast in human guise, whining for love, maddened him. "Any white
woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million
years afterward rather than love you!"

"I'll see you killed at the stake, beggin' fer mercy, an' be feed
fer buzzards," croaked the renegade.

"Then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished
buzzard-feasts," cried Joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice.
"Then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there.
Wetzel is on your trail! He missed you last night; but it was
because of the girl. He's after you, Girty; he'll get you one of
these days, and when he does—My God!—"

Nothing could be more revolting than that swarthy, evil face turned
pale with fear. Girty's visage was a ghastly, livid white. So
earnest, so intense was Joe's voice, that it seemed to all as if
Wetzel was about to dart into the glade, with his avenging tomahawk
uplifted to wreak an awful vengeance on the abductor. The renegade's
white, craven heart contained no such thing as courage. If he ever
fought it was like a wolf, backed by numbers. The resemblance ceased
here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and Girty,
driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. Even now at the
mention of Wetzel's enmity he trembled.

"I'll shet yer wind," he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making
for Joe.

Silvertip intervened, and prevented the assault. He led Girty back
to his seat and spoke low, evidently trying to soothe the renegade's
feelings.

"Silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him," implored Joe.

"Paleface brave—like Injun chief. Paleface Shawnee's prisoner—no
speak more," answered Silvertip, with respect in his voice.

"Oh, where's Nellie?"

A grief-stricken whisper caught Jim's ear. He turned to see Kate's
wide, questioning eyes fixed upon him.

"Nell was rescued."

"Thank God!" murmured the girl.

"Come along," shouted Girty, in his harsh voice, as, grasping Kate's
arm, he pulled the girl violently to her feet. Then, picking up his
rifle, he led her into the forest. Silvertip followed with Joe,
while the remaining Indian guarded Jim.

The great council-lodge of the Delawares rang with savage and fiery
eloquence. Wingenund paced slowly before the orators. Wise as he
was, he wanted advice before deciding what was to be done with the
missionary. The brothers had been taken to the chief, who
immediately called a council. The Indians sat in a half circle
around the lodge. The prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two
brawny braves, stood in one corner gazing with curiosity and
apprehension at this formidable array. Jim knew some of the braves,
but the majority of those who spoke bitterly against the palefaces
had never frequented the Village of Peace. Nearly all were of the
Wolf tribe of Delawares. Jim whispered to Joe, interpreting that
part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of them.
Two white men, dressed in Indian garb, held prominent positions
before Wingenund. The boys saw a resemblance between one of these
men and Jim Girty, and accordingly concluded he was the famous
renegade, or so-called white Indian, Simon Girty. The other man was
probably Elliott, the Tory, with whom Girty had deserted from Fort
Pitt. Jim Girty was not present. Upon nearing the encampment he had
taken his captive and disappeared in a ravine.

Shingiss, seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners,
eloquently urged initiating the brothers into the tribe. Several
other chiefs were favorably inclined, though not so positive as
Shingiss. Kotoxen was for the death penalty; the implacable Pipe for
nothing less than burning at the stake. Not one was for returning
the missionary to his Christian Indians. Girty and Elliott, though
requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence.

Wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. He had
heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his
power. Freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his
hand. His impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to
expect. Therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with
throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified
interval before addressing the council.

"Wingenund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white
Indian opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the
palefaces. Pipe wants the blood of the white men; the Shawnee chief
demands the stake. Wingenund says free the white father who harms no
Indian. Wingenund hears no evil in the music of his voice. The white
father's brother should die. Kill the companion of Deathwind!"

A plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of
stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the
dread appellation.

"The white father is free," continued Wingenund. "Let one of my
runners conduct him to the Village of Peace."

A brave entered and touched Jim on the shoulder.

Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe.

"No, no. I am not the missionary," cried Joe, staring aghast at his
brother. "Jim, have you lost your senses?"

Jim sadly shook his head, and turning to Wingenund made known in a
broken Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would
sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the
Christianity he had taught.

"The white father is brave, but he is known," broke in Wingenund's
deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. "Let him go
back to his Christian Indians."

The Indian runner cut Joe's bonds, and once more attempted to lead
him from the lodge. Rage and misery shown in the lad's face. He
pushed the runner aside. He exhausted himself trying to explain, to
think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He
even implored Girty to speak for him. When the renegade sat there
stolidly silent Joe's rage burst out.

"Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a
missionary. I am Deathwind's friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the
companion of Le Vent de la Mort!"

Joe's passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his
flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of
the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the
spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all
Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony,
for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian's
heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The
indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration.

"Let the white father stand forth," sternly called Wingenund.

A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore
a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference.
The strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern
resolve in the gray eyes identical—they were twin brothers.

Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly
with this situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not
suit him. Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.

"Let Wingenund's daughter come," he ordered.

A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her
beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.

"Wingenund's daughter has her mother's eyes, that were beautiful as
a doe's, keen as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. Let the
Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father."

Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim's arm.

"Missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "Thank
Wingenund's daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!"

He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim's arm.

"Good-by, Joe," brokenly said Jim.

"Old fellow, good-by," came the answer.

They took one last, long look into each others' eyes. Jim's glance
betrayed his fear—he would never see his brother again. The light
in Joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable
spirit—while there was life there was hope.

"Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded
Wingenund.

When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds
had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but
the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant
hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her
piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold,
steely eyes fascinated her.

She had saved one only to be the other's doom!

She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she
rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind.
She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been
his savior. And now when she looked into the eyes of this young
giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she
resolved to save him.

She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to
a paleface's, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.

As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole
person radiated with conscious pride in her power. It was the
knowledge that she could save. When she kissed his hand, and knelt
before him, she expressed a tender humility.

She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked
what no Indian dared refuse a chief's daughter; she took the
paleface for her husband.

Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained
kneeling. Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. Silvertip
retired to his corner with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads
as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable.

Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. An old Indian,
wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the
lodge and waved his wampum wand. He mumbled strange words, and
departed chanting a long song.

Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face,
and, still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through
long rows of silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he
following like one in a dream.

He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through
the leaves. Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand.
Surely this slender, graceful figure was real.

She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. Still silent, in
amazement and gratitude, he obeyed.

The maiden turned to Joe. Though traces of pride still lingered, all
her fire had vanished. Her bosom rose with each quick-panting
breath; her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe.

But at last the fluttering lashes rose. Joe saw two velvety eyes
dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an
unuttered hope and love.

"Whispering Winds—save—paleface," she said, in a voice low and
tremulous. "Fear—father. Fear—tell—Wingenund—she—Christian."

Indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze
over the Delaware village. The forests blazed with autumn fire, the
meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. All day low down in the valleys
hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept
out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist. All day the asters
along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch
the warning warmth of his smile. All day the plains and forests lay
in melancholy repose. The sad swish of the west wind over the tall
grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north
wind. The sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless
trees.